


The Dread of Vanished Shadows

by lordhellebore



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Background Character Death, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-War, Snape Lives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-03
Updated: 2012-11-03
Packaged: 2017-11-17 17:07:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/553893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lordhellebore/pseuds/lordhellebore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Severus has always had nightmares, and he's always had to face them alone. After the war and his wife's death, Remus is in a nightmare of his own. But while not all nightmares vanish eventually, some are not meant to last.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Dread of Vanished Shadows

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lore](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lore/gifts).



_They do divide our being; they become_  
A portion of ourselves as of our time,  
And look like heralds of eternity;  
They pass like spirits of the past—they speak  
Like sibyls of the future; they have power—  
The tyranny of pleasure and of pain;  
They make us what we were not—what they will,  
And shake us with the vision that's gone by,  
The dread of vanished shadows. 

~ Lord Byron (“The Dream”)

 

.-.-.-. 

 

**_One: Aftermath_ **

 

When he wakes up, Remus knows Tonks is dead. He knows it the moment he can catch a clear thought, even before he’s conscious of the pain or understands where he is. He saw her die, saw her fall no more than three feet away, eyes wide, skin glowing sickly green from the Killing Curse.

There’s a hand holding his, squeezing gently. “Remus? Can you understand me?”

When he opens his eyes, there are white walls and white sheets on his bed, and Harry sitting in a chair next to him. He is at St. Mungo’s, Remus realises. The battle is over, and whether or not Voldemort is dead, at least Harry survived. Remus should feel some relief at least, but finds that he can’t. His right leg is on fire and his head is throbbing viciously, but there seems to be only dead weight where his heart is supposed to be. She’s gone. The one bit of happiness he’d been able to grasp ever since everything went to shit after the first war. And now she’s gone.

“Remus.” Harry looks at him with an expression of sympathy that makes him feel nauseous. “It’s over, Voldemort . . . he died. But . . . there’s something else.”

He doesn’t want to hear it, doesn’t want for Harry to make it even more real, but he can’t speak, can’t tell him to shut up. All he can do is close his eyes and turn his head away.

“Tonks. She’s . . . I’m so sorry, Remus.” Harry’s grip tightens. “She didn’t make it.”

With a harsh tug, Remus pulls his hand out of Harry’s and turns to lie on his side, facing the wall. The pain in his leg is unbearable, but he grits his teeth and stays silent. Harry talks more, but Remus can’t listen. After a while, the talking stops and the chair’s legs screech over the floor. The door falls shut behind Harry. Remus pulls the covers higher and stares at the wall.

.-.-.-.

It’s been three weeks, and nothing has changed. By now, his leg is healed enough so that he can start limping around with a cane for a few steps, but Remus doesn’t care particularly. He wouldn’t care if he had to stay in this bed forever, would maybe even prefer it, he’s not certain.

He’s had visitors: Harry again, Ron, Hermione, telling him about what happened. McGonagall, looking at him with a sad little smile on her face. Andromeda, crying her eyes out over her dead daughter, yelling at him when he neither cried with her nor spared her a word. They told him they’d put Tonks in a magical stasis, so he can be there at her funeral once he’s recovered. He wishes she was buried already – he can’t imagine seeing her in a coffin, seeing her disappear in a grave. But he said nothing, only nodded and looked away again.

The healers are worried and so are his friends; Remus sees concern written all over their faces whenever they look at him, and there are hushed conversations sometimes, when they think he’s asleep.

Why isn’t he talking?

It’s something he doesn’t know either. All he knows is that he can’t care enough about anything or anyone to want to even try, and the one thing he cares about is something he can’t put into words – they’re as dead as his wife, it seems. 

Why her and not him? He’s long known such questions are futile – nothing in life makes any sense – but he can’t stop thinking about it. It would have been better, for both of them

.-.-.-.

They put someone in the second bed in the room earlier this evening. Remus heard the Healers talk about the man having been in Intensive Care up to now as they brought him in, and that he’s lucky to be alive. He hasn’t bothered looking who it might be, and there haven’t been any visitors yet. The other man hasn’t made a sound, hasn’t tried talking to him, and Remus is glad about it.

It’s late at night by now, but he can’t sleep, hasn’t been able to sleep more than an hour or two here and there. Remus watches the candles throw flickering shadows on the wall next to his bed, feels the dull pain pulse through his leg, and waits for the night to end.

“No. No, I can’t. Don’t make me do this!”

Remus jumps at the voice, a voice he knows all too well.

“Please, no!”

Severus.

Harry told Remus about him being a spy all along, about why he had to kill Dumbledore, about how much he helped them, ever since Harry first came to Hogwarts. Remus hadn’t been surprised as he should have been, hadn’t felt anything about it.

There’s a moan and a gasp, then something that sounds like muffled sobs. Remus sighs and pulls the covers over his head.

.-.-.-.

They’re courting him, or at least that’s what it sounds like to Remus when he listens, facing the wall, to the people who visit Severus. The newly elected Minister Shacklebolt, the Hogwarts professors, students and parents. They talk about how brave he was, how hard it must have been on him, how they admire him. Day after day, they turn up, refusing to leave without having said something silly. Even Ron awkwardly mutters something about respect and sacrifice.

Remus very much doubts any of it matters to Severus, who is monosyllabic and sullen. A few times, he snaps something sarcastic, but mostly, he lets them talk, much like Remus does with his visitors. 

The two of them still haven’t spoken a word; Remus feels no inclination and apparently, it is the same with Severus. At night, Remus will lie awake and listen to the sounds from Severus’s side of the room. He dreams almost every night, and it’s always nightmares. The Healers said something about Sleeping Draughts interfering with his other medication and asked Remus if he minded, but he’d shaken his head. The heart of the matter, as he slowly realises, listening to Severus scream and plead and cry night after night, is that in a way, he feels comforted by it.

Everyone is mourning those who died, but overall, the relief is stronger, he can hear it in the visitors’ and even the Healers’ voices, see it in their faces when he chooses to look at them sometimes. Those feelings can’t reach him; that the war is over means nothing to him. Severus seems to feel similar, from what Remus can tell, and in a strange fashion, it makes Remus feel connected. There are no signs of joy or relief in Severus, and at night the war still goes on in his mind. He was involved so deeply, has endured and inflicted so much pain that Remus doubts it will change for him any time soon. Some wars never truly end.

.-.-.-.

He’ll be going home tomorrow. To Grimmauld Place – he can’t possibly return to his and Tonks’ old flat, and he’d refused to move in with Andromeda like she had offered, once again offending her. Remus doubts he’ll see much of her after this. Harry had suggested he stay at the old empty house and when Remus had nodded, he’d promised to bring Remus’s things there and take care of everything. 

In a way, he’s glad to leave, to get away from the concern of the Healers, who’ve decided by now that if he doesn’t want to talk to people, it doesn’t mean he’s gone crazy. They consider him sane, but not healthy, just functional enough to take care of himself. 

And then there is Severus. Remus almost dreads leaving him behind, and while he’s aware that it’s all only in his mind, he’s afraid to lose this. He’ll have to be on his own with this paralysing numbness, without a tether to connect him to anyone like he feels to Severus.

Night has come, the last one they’ll spend in this room together, and Remus is lying awake and watching Severus sleep: the covers slid down to his waist, one arm on the pillow over his head, chest rising and falling slowly. The first few hours, everything is silent, but in the end, like nearly every night, Severus stirs.

For minutes, Remus watches him toss in bed, listens to him moaning and crying out “No” and “Please” and, again and again, “Not him!” The stench of sour sweat is overwhelming in his sensitive nose.

Severus, too, will go home someday, to an empty house, alone with the shadows of his past. McGonagall offered him to return to Hogwarts, but he’d only sneered at her. He might be a hero, but no parent would want for their child to have a murderer as teacher.

Severus turns around, facing Remus, the candle-light illuminating his sickly pale face, which is screwed in a grimace. “You can’t,” he mutters through gritted teeth. “You _can’t_ die on me!”

Is he dreaming of Lily, Remus wonders, and would he dream of Tonks if he let himself sleep? Severus moans again, sounding frightened, and suddenly, for the first time since he woke up after the battle, Remus can’t stand doing nothing. He sits up and grabs the cane that’s leaning against the wall, then he slowly makes his way across the room. When he sits down next to him on the bed, Severus doesn’t notice; he’s shaking, damp hair sticking to his forehead, his eyes moving rapidly behind closed eyelids.

Remus reaches out to touch him, but in this moment, Severus jerks awake and sits upright in bed, staring ahead of him wide-eyed and panting. Again, Remus reaches out and touches Severus’s shoulder. Severus flinches and turns to look at him, still not fully lucid, wet traces glittering on his cheeks in the dim light.

“It’s Potter,” he says, voice trembling as much as his body. “Potter is dead. I failed everyone.” His mouth twists painfully and he starts sobbing, hiding his face behind his hands. 

Remus can’t help himself, can’t watch Severus like this, and he leans forward and pulls him into an embrace. Severus goes stiff only for moments before he lets it happen, lets Remus hold him close and rock him, his face pressed tightly against Remus’s chest as he cries.

.-.-.-. 

Severus doesn’t want to move, not now when the arms around him are so firm, when the heartbeat in his ear is so soothing. Someone is stroking his hair, slowly, gently, and he sighs, tightening his grip on the fabric of the clothes he’s clinging to.

It was a dream, he knows that now, nothing but a dream like he has them so often. Voldemort is dead. Potter is safe. He didn’t fail, not this time. He did what he had to, and he’ll accept any price it will cost him in the future, nights spent alone full of dreams just like this. It’s never been different, after all. But just for now, he wants to stay like this a little longer, and he’s incredibly grateful that Lupin doesn’t seem to mind. 

It has to be Lupin; there’s nobody else who’d be here at night. Severus is surprised the man found it in himself to care – he’s been apathetic and mute ever since Severus was put in this room two weeks ago. But he’s glad it happened, glad that with the image of Potter’s dead face still fresh in his mind, he can listen to Lupin’s heart and feel him breathe, feel the life in him so closely.

Finally, Severus pulls away and wipes his cheeks with the sleeve of his pyjamas. Lupin is silent, looking at him with something like sympathy, and while before all of this, Severus would have been enraged by it, now it doesn’t matter anymore. All their animosities seem insignificant. 

“I’m tired, Lupin,” he says, lying back against the pillow. “Too tired even to care that it’s you.” He’s more than tired – whenever he thinks of life after St. Mungo’s, all he wants is to sleep and not have to wake up. He’s got no idea what to do with himself, now that Voldemort is gone for good, now that he has no purpose. “I envy them,” he hears himself say. “They’re young; they’ll manage to make lives for themselves now that it’s over.” But for people like him and Lupin, he doubts it will ever be over. Not after two wars, not after they’ve spent more than half their lives under this shadow and lost so much.

Lupin doesn’t reply, he only nods his understanding – or his agreement maybe – and tucks the covers around Severus, who closes his eyes. There’s the sound of naked feet and a cane, then the rustling of Lupin’s own covers. When Severus falls asleep again, at least for tonight, there are no more dreams.

 

.-.-.-.

 

**_Two: Convergence_ **

 

Severus is pouring himself a cup of tea when the doorbell rings. Annoyed, he puts down the teapot and stares at the kitchen doorway, wondering if he should open. Most likely, it will be that insufferable Rita Skeeter – she’s been after him for four months now, ever since he was released from St. Mungo’s. Even when he’d still been there, she had tried to sneak into his room more than once.

But it might be the new Copper Cauldron being delivered; Potage’s Cauldron Shop just recently installed a delivery service Severus has decided to take advantage of. Well, if it’s Skeeter, he’ll just have to hex her or at least threaten her with it before slamming the door in her face, Severus thinks as he makes his way to the front door. When he opens, though, it’s neither her nor an employee of the shop. It’s Lupin.

He’s lost the cane, but he doesn’t look any better than at St. Mungo’s: he’s thinner than Severus remembers him, most of his hair is grey, and when he attempts to smile, it doesn’t look real.

“Hello, Severus.”

“What do you want?” Severus still can’t muster the old dislike, but he doesn’t know why Lupin turned up at his place. He’s made it clear that he doesn’t want visitors – Potter had tried once, not having given up after Severus had told him to stay away at St. Mungo’s already, and surely, Potter must have told his friends.

Lupin shrugs, looking unsure of what to say, and Severus considers ending the awkward situation by closing the door again. But he’s got to think of that night, then, of Lupin’s embrace and the sound of his heart beating, and instead, without truly knowing why, he takes a step back.

“Come on in. I just made tea.”

Back in the kitchen, Severus pours a second cup, then he takes a tray with the tea, milk, and sugar to the living room where Lupin is sitting on the couch, looking uncomfortable. More than that, though, he looks exhausted, with the same lines around his mouth and the same dark circles Severus finds under his eyes when he looks in the mirror. 

Severus sits on the other side of the couch and they drink tea in silence, like they were silent all those weeks in St. Mungo’s. It’s familiar and although it is strange, it’s not all that bad.

“How have you been?” Their cups are filled for the second time when Lupin speaks, voice soft and a bit rusty, as though he still didn’t use it often.

How has he been? 

“Tired.” Severus looks down into his cup at the milky tea, thinking of all the nights he’s woken up and was scared to go back to sleep. He is grateful that the Ministry (on Potter’s insistence, he’s got no doubt) decided to award him with a war pension – in this state, he couldn’t possibly work. It’s more than the dreams, though; it’s as if everything that happened over the last years has caught up with him after he had forbidden himself to let it touch him for so long.

“Me too.”

There doesn’t seem anything else that needs saying, and they empty their cups in silence again.

“I . . . thank you, Severus,” Lupin finally says and gets up. “It’s just . . . they don’t understand.”

Severus says nothing; he brings Lupin to the door, watching him walk down the street and then disappear.

.-.-.-.

They’re having tea as they do twice a week, Lupin having turned up at four in the afternoon as he usually does. Severus hadn’t thought it would develop like this, but he’d not closed the door when Lupin had come again, and over the last few months, he’s come to like these times together.

Lupin was right, most of them don’t understand. Of course, there are those who lost loved ones as well, but so many of them have friends and family, have _someone_ to help them. And most of them haven’t seen the things Severus or Lupin have, and the others who’d fought in both wars, always in the first row. Few have been involved this deeply, and most of those who were are dead or in Azkaban.

It’s good that the two of them don’t need many words, because it seems too exhausting to even try most of the time, and Severus isn’t sure that _if_ he tried, he could find them. What do you talk with someone you despised for most of your life and who’s now turned into some bizarre source of comfort?

At the thought, he looks over to Lupin, but he doesn’t see what he expected. Lupin’s cup is on the coffee table, he himself is slumped in one corner of the big couch, face leaning sideways against the worn brown fabric, eyes closed, mouth slightly open. He’s sleeping.

For some moments, Severus can only stare in bewilderment before he summons a woollen blanket and spreads it over Lupin, careful not to wake him. He had noticed back at St. Mungo’s that Lupin barely slept, and maybe that hasn’t changed. If he now can, for whatever reason, sleep in Severus’s presence, then Severus won’t take that away from him. There was a time when it would have brought him a spiteful and entirely useless pleasure to wake Lupin from a much needed nap like this. Now all he can do is shake his head at the idea. They’ve all suffered enough.

It’s almost nine in the evening when Lupin stirs. Severus read Potions magazines while drinking tea, fixed himself a chicken sandwich for supper, and now is reading again in his corner of the couch.

“Severus?” Lupin blinks, looking confused as he peeks out from under the blanket.

“You fell asleep.”

“Oh.” Lupin sits up straighter and looks at the clock over the kitchen door. “It’s late, I’m sorry. You didn’t have to . . . you could have asked me to leave.”

“Nonsense,” Severus says, putting the current issue of _Creative Concoctions & Brilliant Brews_ he’d been immersed in on the coffee table. “You needed the sleep.”

Lupin looks at him with a weird expression that Severus can’t quite interpret. “Thank you, Severus. All of this, it means a lot to me.”

It does to him as well, Severus realises, but before he can say anything, Lupin shifts closer to him. His large hand wraps around Severus’s thinner one, squeezing firmly, warm skin on skin. It’s completely ridiculous, but it feels good, more than he thought he’d ever feel again, and Severus squeezes back.

“I can’t sleep when I’m alone,” Lupin murmurs, turning away from Severus to look down at the blotchy carpet in front of him. “Ever since she died, it’s never been more than two hours. I don’t even know why; I’m so tired I feel as if I could sleep through a year without break. But I can’t let myself do it.”

There’s a lump in Severus throat that is hard to swallow. For days after Lily’s death he hadn’t been able to sleep, and once sleep had come back to him, there had been one more nightmare, worse than all others. “I still dream.” He can barely muster more than a whisper. “Of what I did when I was a stupid child. Of what I had to do later. And of . . . her. Sometimes I wish I never had to sleep again.”

There’s no answer, only the tightening of Lupin’s fingers around his. It’s almost painful, but Severus doesn’t pull his hand away. Instead, he squeezes tighter as well, and they sit there for a long time, neither of them loosening his grip. 

.-.-.-.

Severus is in a foul mood today – after months of them meeting, Remus can read him rather well. His posture is stiff, lips pressed firmly together, and there is a steep crease between his brows.

Remus doesn’t ask – it would serve no purpose. They don’t pry, just wait until one of them feels the need to speak. Sometimes it happens, and sometimes not. If it does, it is awkward, but it feels good nonetheless.

So far, Severus has told him about how he’d decided to become a Death Eater, about his parents’ never-ending fights, his mother’s disdain for her Muggle husband. And once, never looking him in the eye, about how his father would become violent far too often after drinking. Remus has talked about being a werewolf, how he’d got bitten, and about losing his friends. Severus snorted derisively when he’d brought up that last subject, but to Remus’s surprise and relief, he listened, never letting go of his hand. It’s curious how they got used to that so quickly, how every time now, the moment will come when they reach out for each other. 

This time, it doesn’t seem as though Severus would want to speak. They’ve nearly emptied the teapot when suddenly, Severus almost grabs Remus’s hand in a jerky motion.

“Do you know about the Carrows?” he asks, his voice harsh but failing to hide that it’s trembling.

“Yes.” Remus moves to sit closer to Severus, their hands clasped firmly.

“Everyone told me I couldn’t have done more than I did, that I couldn’t have protected the students. Even those who were tortured the worst, like that Brocklehurst girl from Ravenclaw. The after-effects will never vanish; Alecto used the Cruciatus Curse too long for her to fully recover. I had to _watch_ it in order not to make them suspicious!” He closes his eyes, obviously struggling for words. “She came to visit me at St. Mungo’s with her parents. Told me how brave I had been, that she admired me. That I couldn’t have done anything and she was glad I hadn’t risked my position on her or any other student’s behalf.”

“She’s right,” Remus says softly. Wars are ugly, and innocent people get sacrificed no matter what. They both know it, but there’s no getting used to it. “In the end, you helped her more by letting it happen.” He despises having to say it, but it’s the truth.

“I _know_ that!” Severus snaps, his pale cheeks splotched with red as he stares at Remus with an expression of despair. “It was the right choice, the _only_ choice. But how do I live with it? She’s forgiven me, but I . . . even so I can’t . . .” He falls silent for some moments, and when he speaks again, all agitation seems to have drained away. “I dreamt of it last night, and her screams were . . . How do I go on? How do _we_ go on after all of this?”

Remus doesn’t know; he has no answer. Ever since the war has been over, he’s been asking himself the same. But he can’t take the look in Severus’s eyes anymore without at least trying. He looks down at their entwined hands and remembers holding Severus close and stroking his hair.

It’s no conscious decision when he lets go of Severus’s hand and instead wraps his arms around him, but it feels right, and Severus doesn’t resist. Remus can feel him cling to his robes and press his ear against his chest where his heart is. It’s beating steadily, and Remus wonders how all of this happened, how Severus, of all people, helped him feel close to alive again.

Maybe this is how they can go on despite everything, he thinks, one day at a time, grasping at small comforts; a touch, a word, an embrace. He breathes in the scent of Severus’s greasy hair and sighs, tightening his hold. Severus’s body is warm against him. Warm.

.-.-.-.

The plate hits the kitchen tiles with a crash, having slipped from Remus’s fingers when he’d wanted to dry it. He stares down at it for long moments, unable to move. This broken plate feels like the last straw on a bad day, and he’s got to blink back tears.

“ _Reparo!_ ”

The shards rise into the air, coming together in the form of a plate again, cracks between them disappearing. Severus pockets his wand and plucks the repaired plate out of the air to put it away.

They discovered that they like to do those things the Muggle way, cooking supper together after Remus wakes up from one of his occasional naps on Severus’s couch, doing the dishes without cleaning spells. It’s easy companionable work, and they found that they work well together.

Today, though, Remus is not in the spirit. He’d hoped seeing Severus would help calm him down, but while he was able to sleep for an hour, he woke up with a headache and the same feeling of helpless anger and guilt as before. He puts the kitchen towel away and leans on the counter, eyes closed. Severus doesn’t comment but goes on clattering with the dishes in the basin, waiting, Remus knows, for him either to speak or to return to drying the still wet cutlery.

“Apparently, all I can do is make Andromeda cry.” He was right about not seeing much of her anymore. Other mothers and sons in law might draw closer together after a tragedy such as this, but not them. It’s his fault, pushing her away every time she reaches out to him, being unable to explain his feelings. “I finally started going through our things from the old flat. I’d thought I would keep some of her favourites, some books, candle-holders. And there was this one blanket Andromeda knitted. Tonks always used it in the evening when she’d read.” He grits his teeth at the mental image of her curled up under the rainbow-striped blanket with a book, her hair sometimes changing colour spontaneously when she’d laugh or frown at the text.

“I couldn’t look at them. I couldn’t even have them in the house, stuff them in some unused room and never look at them again. So I asked Andromeda if she wanted them. She thought I wanted to forget about Tonks – never meeting her, getting rid of her things.” Nothing could be further from the truth. “She said I never loved her.”

Now he _is_ crying, warm tears slowly trickling down his face, making him taste salt, like her skin had tasted that one time when they had gone to the beach and had sex there in the dunes.

“I got a Howler from her the day after Tonks’ funeral. She said she could bury her husband, so why couldn’t I bury my wife? I couldn’t explain it. Why can’t she understand that I love her _too much_ to . . . to . . .” He can’t go on, and then there’s Severus’s wet hand on his clenched fist.

“You know it,” he murmurs. “That’s got to be enough, even if nobody else gets it. It had to be for me, too. You know how much you loved her, and that you’ll always . . . there won’t be a day you won’t think of her, how she laughed, how her hair shone in the sun, and how she made you feel as if maybe things could be different. Better.”

His voice is choked in the end, and Remus knows he’s no longer speaking about him and Tonks. He thinks of watching Tonks read, of how she’d loved to run her fingers over the hair on his chest after they had sex. Her laughter, so loud and sudden that she’d turned heads in public, smiling sheepishly but winking at him. Her strange love of ketchup. The names she’d envisioned for their children one night, snuggled up against him in front of the fire. She had loved him and wanted to spend her life with him. He lost her, but it’s only now that he understands that he can never lose what they had. Severus never had any of that, he only knows loss.

Abruptly, he looks up to face Severus, who seems to have eyes only for the murky dishwater. Remus raises his hand and touches Severus’s hot cheek, making him turn his head and look at him.

“Severus . . .” He’s got no idea how to go on, and maybe he doesn’t have to. They both lean in at the same time, and then their lips are brushing against each other and Severus’s arm wraps around Remus’s waist. Remus never closes his eyes – he wants to see _Severus_ – and they kiss for a while, just lips on lips, soft and comforting.

Finally, Severus pulls away and instead leans his head against Remus’s shoulder. “I’ll always . . .” he begins, and Remus’s hand comes up, fingers entangling themselves in Severus’s hair.

“I know,” he says. “So will I. But we don’t have to be alone.”

Severus nods. “It’s been too long.” 

It has, for both of them. 

 

.-.-.-.

 

**_Three: Shadows_ **

 

Remus is awoken by noises, and for a few moments, he’s confused. It’s still dark, just the candles on the bedside table shedding dim light. There’s a scream, then Severus is sitting upright next to him in bed gasping for air, and Remus shakes off the remaining sleepiness. He sits up as well and wraps his arms around Severus, who struggles, trying to get free.

“Let me! I’ve got to get to him!”

But Remus is stronger by far and only holds Severus tighter. He’s had years of practice and knows that eventually, he’ll calm down like this.

“Potter.” Severus stops struggling after a while and slumps against Remus’s chest. “I couldn’t protect him.”

“Shhh. It’s a dream. Harry is safe, I promise.” Remus kisses Severus’s sweaty forehead and strokes his back, waiting for him to stop shaking.

Back when he had moved into Spinner’s end, there had been dreams like this every night. About Severus’s parents, Voldemort, Lily. The things Severus did or watched. Dumbledore. And, most often, Harry. They’ve grown less over the last seven years, but Remus doesn’t think they will ever vanish completely. He doesn’t mind being woken by them, though. He wants to be there for Severus, and it’s only thanks to him that Remus can sleep again at all. 

Not long after their first kiss, Severus came to Tonks’ grave with him – it was the first time that Remus went there – and a few weeks later, Remus accompanied him to visit Lily. Years later, Tonks’ death still hurts, sometimes so much, in such unexpected moments, that it makes him reel, taking his breath away. But there is no more numbness now; the world no longer is distant and muted as if he were wrapped in cotton. And there is Severus. 

In St. Mungo’s, Severus had said that he envied the young people who would be able to move on and build a life for themselves. It’s a struggle, but Remus likes to think that slowly, year by year, the two of them are managing to do the same.

There’s a shudder running through Severus, and he arches closer to Remus, one hand wrapped around his waist, the other fisted tightly around a piece of his pyjama top. Remus starts rocking him slowly, and Severus sighs. It’s different, quieter and tinged with past sadness, but by now, it’s no less love than it was with Tonks. 

They paid a high price, but the wars didn’t break them. They can have peace now, and more. They deserve it.

.-.-.-.

Severus listens to Lupin’s heart, one slow, steady thud after the other. It never stops, never falters. He needs to feel it, let it soothe away the dread of the nightmares, reminding him that they are both still alive, that so many survived. Like Potter.

It’s the one dream they’ve never talked about. Even speaking about Lily seems easier than this, and he still resents the fact that for years, there was something that felt even worse than her death: these dreams, year after year, ever since Potter started his time at Hogwarts. Potter killed by the three-headed dog or the Basilisk. Murdered by Quirrel, by Black, by Lupin during the full moon. Potter lying dead on the graveyard next to the tomb of Tom Riddle senior. Bellatrix snapping completely, torturing Potter at Malfoy Manor before casting the Killing Curse. Voldemort standing over Potter’s dead body, eyes glowing crimson, smiling. A hundred other scenarios: the Hogwarts Express derailing, the Dementors, the Forbidden Forest, Quidditch.

He shudders, needing to be closer to Lupin still, and Lupin understands, as he always does, and holds him closer, swaying back and forth gently. Severus is lucky to have found him, lucky that Lupin decided to turn up here eight years ago to seek uncertain comfort. It’s become more than just that, day after day, year after year of them growing together. 

They both needed _somebody_ at first, to share their pain and to ward off the shadows. Now “somebody” has turned into “each other”, and daily little things have become so important in making him feel safe, sometimes even happy, silly things like knowing that Lupin will never stop ruining his teeth with the three teaspoons of sugar he puts into his tea. Severus is content to find the _Daily Prophet_ in complete disarray after Lupin read it, every morning again. He knows how to prepare Lupin’s fried eggs just right with a pinch of black pepper, and Lupin has learnt to assist him with brewing, chopping and slicing and stirring the way Severus instructs him, smiling at him so fondly when Severus talks about trying out a new recipe or improving an old one. 

Traditions have built already, like visiting Potter and his wife for Easter and Christmas. Severus usually hides in his lab in the cellar when Potter or his friends come to visit Lupin, but just once or twice a year, he wants to see for himself that Lily’s son is happy, living the life she was never allowed to. He won’t ever like him, but he needs it – another means to keep the nightmares at bay, win out over the dread that overtakes him each time he looks into lifeless green eyes.

“Let’s go back to sleep, Severus,” Lupin murmurs into his thoughts. “Stop brooding.”

Severus nods, and Lupin presses another kiss on his forehead before he pulls him down with him and puts the covers over them, Severus’s head resting on Lupin’s chest.

Maybe the dreams will return again tonight, or maybe tomorrow. There are shadows that won’t be chased away in a lifetime. But the two of them found a way to live with them after all. They no longer have to face them alone, and nothing is more important.

 

_The End_


End file.
